


The Flip of A Coin

by MotelsandDiners



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adults being less than adults, Angst, Awkward Date/Not Date, Best Friend Sam, Breaking A Curse, Chick-Flick Moments, Cursed Object, Dean Is Kind Of Sappy, Dean Struggles With His Feelings, F/M, Fluff, Little confessions, Love Confessions, Rating To Change For Last Chapter, Russian Stripper (I gotta tag that), Sam Is So Done, Sam Saves Your Ass Again, SlightlyObsessiveDean, Stubborn Dean, Sweet Sam, Tense Partenership, You Get Emotional, You Struggle With Your Feelings, You and Dean are Stubbornly Stupid, break-up, sam is a really good friend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:30:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9493568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotelsandDiners/pseuds/MotelsandDiners
Summary: Relationships aren't your forte, and they aren't his either. Same goes for communication, you two need to work on that, pronto. But it looks like the opportunity for that may be missed.You've left the ball in his court, whatever happens will be on him...Lord, you must be delusional. If there's one thing Dean Winchester doesn't do, it's feelings. Oh, well, guess you'll just have to go on without him.





	1. Heads or Tails?

You squint, trying to determine if he is in fact serious. When his expression remains, somewhere between amused and patient, you lean back in your seat, coffee and pie forgotten.

“Why?” you ask and watch his eyebrows pinch as if you’ve asked him who Lou Gramm is, apparently, your response is unfounded despite the lack of information he’s given you.

“What do you mean ‘why’?” he shoots back, sounding as confused as you feel.

The air draws taut between you, chained with uncertainty, weighed with astonishment, and he glances away at his plate, drags his fork through leftover syrup.

You sigh, lean your forearms on the table and speak again. “So, let me get this straight,” he looks at you, green eyes focused with intent that you can’t decipher, and you clear your throat. “You want me to be your date at this fancy dinner, despite the fact that we’re on a break. A break you wanted?”

He coughs a little, shifts his shoulders and his throat works  a couple times before he replies. “Yeah,” his voice is lack luster and his expression wobbles, uncomfortable.

You sigh again, deeper this time. “Dean, we literally haven’t seen each other for a month, and the first time you call me is because you need to pretend to be in a relationship-“

“We are in a relationship,” he interjects, his tone hurt, but his eyes say he’s angry.

“Oh, right, sorry. We’re on a ‘break’,” you snark, not bothering to hide your annoyance at his pig-headedness. You’re ready to brush it under the table and just agree to whatever the hell he needs when you see the bold offense in his eyes, the fact that he doesn’t see the problem, that there isn’t a problem to him.

Your back straightens stiff and his eyes narrow, you’re rearing up for an argument and he knows it. “I haven’t spoken to you for almost thirty days, or you to me. Not even a little check-up: Hey, you still alive out there? Don’t even get me started on the fact that you never explained why you wanted this dumb break-“

“I have my reasons,” he interrupts again, index finger tapping the table in vexation.

“Which are what?” you challenge, and he tightens his lips, clenches his jaw in rebellion.

You scoff, shake your head. “You need into this stupid dinner so bad, take some rando at a bar,” you snap venomously, and his eyes widen at your words. “Because I’m done.” You don’t even wait around to see his expression or hear whatever bullshit will come out of his mouth. You’re out of the booth like it’s on fire and stomping towards the door, boots slapping heatedly on the old tiles.

You disregard the fact that you’ve ignored the importance of the dinner, it was for a hunt. Necessary, someone’s life was in danger, and going to that dinner was a step in the right direction for saving them.

Instead, you think about right now and the last month you’ve been through. He was an arrogant ass, convinced he had done nothing wrong by calling you and proposing something like this, especially when the two of you were on a break. A break he had never explained.

Maybe he felt like he didn’t have to because the relationship was essentially over to him. It wasn’t to you. This whole month all you did was worry about him, wondering if he was still alive, or if he had gotten hurt on a hunt. You started to think that maybe this month long silence would become permanent and this break was his way of ending the relationship without actually ending it, and then he called you a couple days ago and asked to see you.

You thought you’d talk about your relationship and where it was going, if it was going anywhere, but instead it had been about a hunt.

A hunt came before you, was more important than your feelings and your general existence.

You rake a hand through your hair in aggravation. You want to think that he had been just as miserable as you this past month, that he had difficulty falling asleep because you weren’t there, but somehow…you can’t.

You can’t see him agonizing over your whereabouts, pacing the room of a motel floor, phone in hand dying to call you, not like you had every day. You can’t see him caring about you the way you care about him, and you try to find it in yourself to be surprised, try to convince yourself that you’re wrong, but the walk to your car is too short and you’re shoving your key in the door, fighting the burn in your eyes.

Your hands are shaking so bad you miss the lock and stab your key into the paintjob, dropping them. You sigh, the sound pregnant with exasperation and fatigue. You bend to pick up your keys, stiffen when you hear the diner door slam shut and feel eyes on your back.

There’s a moment of silence where you think he’s just going to coast by you and leave the situation be, but it passes, and the heat you feel on your back because of his stare increases and you hear his boots stomping towards you.

Then his voice joins his stare and reaches across the distance of the parking lot. “Hey, where the hell do you think you’re going?!”

You breathe deep, and stand, forcing your hand steady as you try for the door again. His footsteps are so loud it’s like he’s doing high-knees or something, and you roll your eyes at how juvenile he’s being, like you spat on the hood of his car.

Your keys make it into the lock this time, and you talk over your shoulder, “That’s none of your concern anymore.” And then you swivel on your heel, not at all surprised that he’s less than a foot from you. You somehow muster up the ability to scowl at him. “I’m not sure it ever really was.”

“What does that mean?” he squints, mouth thin, and you think you’d like to bust his lip open. But you don’t.

“Huh,” you say, with more flippancy than has ever applied to anything concerning Dean. “Asking a lot of questions for the one that called all the shots.”

His expression slides, scrunches at your words and the poison in them, and you know he wants to argue with you. You can see it, like a candle flickering behind pupils, those irises brightening with heat and light.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he pulls his gaze away and looks around the parking lot, over the hood of cars parked beside your own, and his tongue pokes along the inside of his cheek as he drags it around to the backs of his teeth.

“This what you want?” he asks, tone neutral, not giving anything away, and everything tilts for a moment.

Your perspective shifts, past him, zeroes in on the long-term. Tries to accept the places he’ll no longer be. Empty motel rooms, lonely car rides, dinner-dates for one, a blank space in your contacts between the C and E…

And you can’t see it, because a second later it plays on and he waltzes in, takes his place with authority and purpose and a sense of right. He belongs in your life, like that last piece of a puzzle. 

You suck a breath in, and he looks at you, calm and measured, ready to hear what you decide. “No.” he waits, air high in his chest. “But we’re already there, have been for a month,”

It drops. He frowns at you, brows low in denial and indignation. “So, we’re done. Is that what you’re saying?” he doesn’t even bother to hide his anger, he wields it like a sword and shield, and you almost smile with how predictable he is.

You hold for a moment, admit to yourself that you’re not angry, you’re scared and hiding behind it. Just like him, and wonder if he’d be willing to admit it. You rake a hand through your hair. “I’m saying that’s what it _feels_ like.”

And instead of thinking, considering your words like he should do in a fragile moment like this, he snorts and shakes his head.

“Well, then that’s on you babe. Not my fault you feel the way you do,”

You gape at him, tongue dead in your mouth, mind stuttering and scratching along the surface of your vocabulary like the needle on a record player. He stands proud, guiltless and untouchable, unfazed by your astonishment.

You shift your gaze to something that doesn’t hurt your eyes, and tuck the shreds of your emotions behind the cradle of your ribcage. “Good luck on your case.”

You turn, missing the flash of uncertainty in his eyes, and open your door. “Call me or don’t. It doesn’t really matter,” you say, and slide in because he hasn’t backed off.

He watches, not because he needs to, or wants to, but simply because he doesn’t know what else to do. You back out of the parking space, and he follows somewhat numbly, stopping in the center as you turn your car toward the road.

He swallows when the window rolls down, and you look at him. He notes, a little absently, that you’re wearing his sunglasses you stole back in Atlanta. “You know Dean,” He straightens at your voice, closes in on all the dips and rises, the lilts and emphasis, the nuances of your speech. Because, he realizes a bit too late, that these could be the last words you ever say to him.

“No mattered what happened- no matter what happens,” you correct yourself, and he cocks his head, completely unprepared for the next words out of your mouth.

“I’ll love you. Even though I shouldn’t.”

He blinks, and everything behind his ribcage drops as you coax the window back up. He agonizes every inch of you he loses behind that glass, hates that he couldn’t even say anything to you. He just stared, mouth open like a fish out of water at your proclamation.

He watches your car as it rolls out of the parking lot and onto the road, mind heavy and only getting heavier the farther away you get. He sags the second you’re out of view, disappeared and gone forever.

He stands in the middle of the parking lot, alone. With your words imprinted in his ears and his mind. They lay with pressure on his chest and strangle the air in his lungs.

Because he could’ve told you. He could’ve.

But he didn’t.


	2. 50/50 Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even less talking gets done, no surprise there. But it can be put on the back-burner, what with cursed currency out and about, right? Do you even want to talk? Good thing you've got this case between the two of you as a buffer.

4 weeks later...

 

She dabs at her eyes, mascara running in diluted rivulets down her cheekbone, and you wish you could empathize, but you just silently watch in something like pity.

Mrs. Penning, now Ms. with the death of her husband.

You wonder if someone ever really gets over the death of a spouse, and you concede that they probably don’t. You weren’t even married and you couldn’t get his face out of your mind, every day you woke up you had the words ‘Good morning, Dean’ hanging onto your lips like instinctual impulse.

You knew you needed to move on, but you couldn’t bring yourself to let him fade into the background of your life. It tore you to shreds when you thought about the last time you’d seen him, the words you’d said, you’re sure they were like a nail in his coffin.

Ms. Penning sniffles, and you re-focus. “Ms. Penning,” she looks up at you, pretty amber eyes subdued in color with grief, and you don’t even feel sorry. Ironic, considering the next words out of your mouth.

“I’m sorry for your loss, but I need to ask you a few questions about-“ fuck, what was his name? “your late husband.” Ah, well, she’ll never know.

She nods a little, balls her tissue up in sorrow-shaken hands. “What would you like to know?” her eyes are still wet, but her voice is strong enough, and you manage to be somewhat impressed.

“Before your husband passed away, did you notice anything strange or different about him?” you ask cautiously with high eyebrows, and watch her stumble in confusion.

“Like what?” she sounds incredulous, and the expression she wears adds wrinkles around her eyes and brow.

You tilt your head with a shrug. “Just- anything that pops out. Even the smallest detail.” Vagueness was something you were good at, as well as lying. 10 seasons of Criminal Minds helped you with that.

She breathes with a knit brow, flat lips tugging down as she thinks. Recognition sparks in her almond eyes and she opens her mouth to speak, but the doorbell interrupts her.

She glances towards the door, same as you, and apologizes. “That’s probably Janine, she said she’d be over sometime today.”

You don’t remember who Janine is but you smile all the same and settle back into the couch while she answers the door. You can’t hear what she says but her tone is surprised, and you gather that it’s not Janine.

You almost reach for your gun, but hesitate as her voice lacks fear, and straighten in your seat.

“-Three FBI agents.” You hear the words as she nears the corner, and you perk in interest as well as caution. You really hope they aren’t legitimate FBI agents. But knowing your luck…

Turns out your luck is worse than you gave it credit for, because around the corner walks a very familiar face.

His hazel eyes meet you with surprise, horror, sadness, relief. And you can’t help but look on in dread because you know who’s right on his heels, and Sam realizes too. But he can only shoot you an apologetic look.

A broad shoulder pokes around the edge of the wall and you swallow hard, Sam angles himself immediately within eye-shot and you’re thankful for that extra second he gives you because you need it.

You breathe deep, edge your features towards cordial, and stand, bee-lining for Sam. His large frame guards you from the body behind him, you’ve never been so happy to be short.

“Hi, there,” he says, the right amount of pleasant, but edging it with neutrality, because he doesn’t know you. “Richard Meltzer,” his hand is large around your own, and warm. He squeezes yours in sympathy, knowing as soon as you open your mouth, Dean’s going to be on high-alert.

‘Richard Meltzer….Blue Oyster Cult.’ You recognize the name, and idly wonder what band Dean stole a name from.

“Alex Turner,” you tell him, and you feel it, like an oppressive force behind Sam. Your ears are locked on the space you can’t see, and you can hear his clothing shift, shoes scuff the floor, his breath flow out quick.

And then Sam’s sliding away, heading for the couch, and pleasantries force you to look at him.

He’s stiff, from his toes to his damn hair, you swear, and you’re almost pleased that your presence throws him off his game. You hold out your hand with a small smile, and his eyes jump down to it, mouth frowning as he thinks about how cosmic this all is.

‘Out of all the cases’ you both think.

His forest greens jump up, filled with an emotion you’ve never seen on him before, and it somehow rocks you. That there’s more about this man you don’t know, that he never showed you. You wonder just how much of his life was still hidden from you, how little he trusted you with.

His eyes crinkle, polite smile pulling those lips back. “Joe Elliot.” He introduces himself, his voice tight, and you _are you serious?_ with your eyes. He clears his throat, shakes your hand without commitment, and forces himself not to shove them in his pockets.

You turn to head back to the couch and find that Sam has taken your place on the middle cushion. You could just about kiss the man because of his sharp wit and consideration.

You settle yourself on the right of him, and Dean takes the left, glad that neither of you have to make eye contact with the other. The line of questioning starts again, this time Sam steers the boat, and you only jump in to ‘vaguely clarify’.

Ms. Penning may be over-taken with grief, but it doesn’t stop her from glancing between you and Dean, acutely aware of the hidden dilemma between you two. It gives her something else to distract from the reality of this questioning.

Every time you talk, Dean shifts, his mind filling in the silence afterwards with words that have haunted him for 4 weeks.

_“No mattered what happened- no matter what happens, I’ll love you. Even though I shouldn’t.”_

He just about wants to swat at Sam for not being more specific when he asks questions so you don’t have to explain. But, he keeps his face masked, and assumes the ‘silent Fed’ position that’s so common in movies.

All he needs are his sunglasses…

Oh, wait. You stole those.

His gaze almost jumps to you as he wonders if you still wear them. Probably not, winter was on its way, and it had been raining a lot. He wouldn’t be surprised if you tossed them.

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Penning,” Sam’s voice drags him from his thoughts, and he stands as the both of you do. “We’re sorry for your loss.” He tells her, puppy-dog eyes on a loop.

He smiles, strained, shakes her hand, and follows you and Sam out in a daze. He’s stopped in the threshold of the front door though by a quiet, amused, “Agent?”

He turns, façade dropping momentarily. His face is question enough because she smiles knowingly and looks past Dean, down the sidewalk at you. You’re walking with Sam, talking quietly. “Whatever it is, apologizing will help. Even if there’s nothing to apologize for.”

He blinks, opens his mouth and glances over his shoulder. You’re stopped next to the Impala, head craned as you stare into Sam’s face. “She’d probably shoot me if I tried to talk to her.” He mutters, but she hears him, and laughs softly.

“Then maybe you should apologize over the phone.” She advises, and Dean nods at her in parting, honestly considering her words.

He meets the two of you at the car, jaw tight with your proximity and the scent of your perfume, and his eyebrows about shoot into his hairline when you look at him and ask, “What was that about?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.” And you let it go, because you can’t look at him longer than it takes to blink.

“Ok, so, cursed object.” You say, wrinkling your nose at the goose-chase you’d all have to go on in the near future.

“At least it’s not a bunch of coins this time,” Sam supplies with a one-shouldered shrug.

“No, this time it’s a 2-dollar bill. What is it with people and cursing money?”

Dean wants to snark, bring up the fact that they’ve come across worse cursed objects, but the words get lodged in his throat as he looks at you.

“Well, we should retrace Mr. Penning’s footsteps…”

That would require the fed-suits, and Dean doesn’t know if he can follow you around all day in that pencil skirt, tight blouse, and slim suit-jacket and keep his mind straight.

But he’ll have to.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” he declares with more enthusiasm than he feels, and you nod absently.

‘Fuck this case’ is heavy on both your minds.


	3. Can I Get Change For $2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seems like relationship problems keep getting pushed to the back-burner, not that you mind. You don't want to talk. At least, that what it seems like to Dean. And suddenly, that's all he wants to do: talk to you.

Mr. Penning had a busy few last days of his life, and your fake badges saw a lot of light of day for 5 hours.

“FBI, we have a few questions concerning Gary Penning,”

“Federal Agents, did you see Gary Penning the day of his death?”

“How did Mr. Penning pay for his purchase? Credit card?”

“How long did Gary stay in the restaurant?”

“Did you see him talk to anyone?”

“Did you witness Mr. Penning loan out any money?”

You’re about ready to tear your hair out in aggravation, five hours of lack-luster responses and no information has you close to punching the next person that apologizes for ‘not being any help’.

You’re pinching the bridge of your nose, leaning against the wall. The second Mr. Penning’s barber put on that regretful, strained look, you excused yourself to the restroom, not in the mood to hear him pause and stutter through his memory for information he doesn’t have.

It wasn’t making any sense. Mr. Penning had died under mysterious causes, but the cause was nowhere on him or in his house. He apparently hadn’t spent it, so where the hell was this damn 2-dollar bill? It was like it vanished into thin air.

“Hey, you alright?” the voice startles you, along with the owner and you jump.

“Sorry, sorry.” Dean says, hands up in apology and you scowl. You’re off-kilter with him being so close, being alone with him, the fact that he ventured all the way to the back of the shop to voluntarily talk to you.

So, you bite like you’ve been poked too many times. “Let me guess, he doesn’t know jack-shit about shit?”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, and he pauses. He came back here to check on you, he could see the strain deepen in your shoulders the longer the day went on and wanted to see if you were okay. He also wanted to try and apologize, or suggest that maybe after this case was over you could stick around. But seeing how hot and quick your temper currently was made him rethink.

“Uh- actually no,” he corrects his wording when your features sharpen. “He does. Know something.” He says, relaxes when you do, momentarily. He wants to think that the stress draining you is just from the case, but he knows better. It’s him.

Every time you glance in his general direction, it’s like he can see the color get sucked from you, and everything you do afterwards is measured and rough. Effort is put into all of your actions, down to the last twitch of your eyelids when you blink.

He can see underneath the proud tip of your chin, and the sunshine smiles you’ve been throwing at Sam all day in response to his puppy-eyes because even his brother can see just how tired and ragged your edges have become. Your silence is something that grates on him, because you’re usually so open and charismatic, you never miss the chance to tell a joke or jump in with something sarcastic, and he misses it.

While the two of you were on a break, he’d create spots for your snark in a conversation only to deflate and kill the moment when he realized that you weren’t there. Duh. Almost every day afterwards, he’d had to correct himself at motels when he’d impulsively ask for two rooms, because he half-expected you to sidle up against him at the front desk and glare at the receptionist for eye-fucking him. And then at restaurants or fast-food joints, he’d order his food, remember to tell them to leave the pickles off his burger because you’d always end up stealing bites of his meal and hated pickles, and then he’d remember that he could have pickles if he wanted them.

But he realized he didn’t want them. Because that would mean you weren’t there to hog the ketchup and sneak fries off his plate when you thought he wasn’t looking.

He realized a little late that he didn’t want the life he had before you. He wanted you in every nook and cranny, every time-slot of the day, he wanted evidence of you in the form of teeth marks on his neck, he wanted a piece of you in his car by the presence of one of your necklaces wrapped and dangling around his rear-view.

He idly wonders if you noticed that your necklace is still there. Not much had changed between the time of the break to now. Sure, you weren’t there. But it felt like you were because he hadn’t accepted that you were anywhere that didn’t include him.

“So?”

Your voice pulls him back and he rolls his features to something that doesn’t scream ‘regretful-douche’. “Uh- strip club.”

You squint, then flatten in distaste. “I don’t think now’s the time,” you quip, disdainful and high-brow, and he rocks back on his heels under the brunt of your tone and expression.

“No, I mean- that was the last place Gary went before he died.” He explains in a worried rush, eyebrows tilted in subdued caution. He didn’t remember it being this easy to piss you off, you had patience for miles, and suddenly it was cut down to inches.

You sigh, toss your head back. “Of course it fucking was.” And stomp passed him, heels clicking with fury.

He watches you go, words lodged in his throat at how cut and dry your interactions have become. It feels like you two are strangers, thrown together by unfortunate circumstance and he scratches at his stubbly jaw in detached evasion.

He’s amazed that it’s easy for you to bite and snip and then waltz on, because while it hurts, he doesn’t want you out of his sight for longer than it takes a second to tick by.

Sam’s waiting by the door when you walk out and he balks at the fire and wrath in your gait. You look ready to decapitate someone. He holds the door open for you, and you nod a thanks.

“Are you-“ the words die when you look at him, and he clamps his jaw shut. He coughs, let’s silence reign for a few moments and then starts on a different topic when you’re both close enough to the sidewalk.

“So, last Tuesday, Gary came in for a haircut that he wasn’t scheduled for. He wouldn’t leave without it, said he needed to look nice,”

You listen quietly, tongue pressing on the roof of your mouth. “Look nice for what?”

Sam shrugs. “Some stripper at the club, I guess.”

You rub at your eyes, confused with the lack of information about this entire case, and because the way that Sam is looking at you tugs on your nerves. “Bet that’s where he spent his cursed bill.”

Sam nods, and he bounces his gaze down the street, something on the tip of his tongue that he tries to keep to himself. But you see the pull of his lips, and enquire.

“What?”

He looks down at you, and opens his mouth, licks his lips and then smiles. Smiles in that ‘I have something funny to say that may or not be appropriate right now’ way, and you relax marginally in expectation.

“Talk about dirty money…”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, shake your head but let a small smile worm its way onto your lips. “Where’s this strip club?”

Dean walks out about the time that Sam makes you smile, and he’s equal parts relieved that you can be something other than angry and tired- and he’s also slightly jealous.

He drags a hand through his hair as he approaches and forces naturalism in the gesture. “So, strip club?” he asks, tone light in attempt to match the mood Sam created.

You snort. “Jeez, don’t sound so excited.”

He shrugs like it doesn’t touch him, but his blood curdles in his veins because you’re unamused and partially disgusted by him. He’s losing ground whether he talks or not, he’s digging himself a hole just by being near you. He doesn’t know if this would be easier if you hated him.

Because you said…

He hopes you were lying.

“Ok, so,” Sam and Dean tilt their heads toward you, because you’ve perched your head on the back of the benchseat. “Does it strike you as odd that Gary died the way he did?”

Sam and Dean scrunch their expressions, wondering what you mean. They look at each other, and Dean shrugs, _I’ll bite._

“What do you mean?”

You rub your thumb along an eyebrow in slight distraction. “Extreme exhaustion. I mean, remember those ballet slippers?” they both nod and you continue. “Whoever wore them danced their feet off. Literally. That kettle? Forced people to drink boiling water from it,” you tuck your lip into your mouth, teeth scraping it.

“Yeah?” Sam prompts, a note of hesitation in his voice, along with bold curiosity.

“So, what the hell did this dollar bill do?”

“I dunno, ran him ragged, I guess.” That’s Dean, un-invested and bordering flippancy. He had to admit that it seemed like you were on to something though.

“You notice how relatively easy it was to track it down, follow in his footsteps?”

You were basically talking to yourself at this point, and both hunters listened to your reasoning, thought about your self-imposed questions while you ran with the rabbit trail in your head.

It felt like you were missing the big picture, but you could see finer points, connect dots that hinted at something familiar. There was a specific nature about the curse on this 2-dollar bill, and it hit a vein in your memory, you’d heard of something like this before. A story…that you couldn’t quite remember.


	4. If I Had A Nickel...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You realize why this business with the cursed two-dollar bill has your brain itching. And it's almost enough to ignore the lack of anything between you and Dean. It's only getting worse for him though, he's starting to wish they never took this case.

Twenty minutes later you’re dragging your feet behind Sam and Dean, eyebrows low in barely restrained agitation. They’re both so eager to walk in and demand things with their badges, garnering attention from everyone in the process.

And you’re content to linger in the back and glare at everyone. You don’t even try to help them, you’re too angry, tired, and emotionally strained to do anything except brood like a crotchety old man. That, and you were still trying to remember that story.

It was loud in here, the music turned up to an uncomfortable level. Something with bass and slow but heavy percussion, the default until scheduled dancers claimed the stage. Sam and Dean are talking to the manager, figures imposing and encompassing the smaller man’s 5’’ 6’ frame. They’re actually doing a spectacular job at remaining professional, neither of them has so much as glanced at the scantily clad women weaving in and out of crowds of drooling men. 

Maybe they can feel you glaring in their general direction? As if he heard your thoughts, Dean’s eyes dart to you standing in the doorway, alarmed to find you already looking at him, and he stutters in his speech.

Luckily, Sam covers for him, and you count your blessings that he’s so damn sharp and perceptive. Unlike you. Your brain is soup, idle thoughts floating around on weak broth-

“Why did Gary get a haircut for a stripper?”

“Did he tip the 2-dollar bill?”

“Where did she go?”

“Why are Sam’s sideburns so damn long?”

You blink at that one, and shake your head with a sigh. You were going so far off the reservation with this case. You couldn’t wait ‘til you found the damn money and could be on your merry way, far from both of them. Once this was over, you were going to run, and keep running until you forgot what you were running from.

“Oh!” you exclaim, with realization, and clap a hand over your mouth when a stripper jumps in surprise.

You remember now, it was a story you had read when you were very little. It was in a collection of folktales and myths that a relative had gifted to you one birthday. What could you say, you liked the macabre, even as a child.

IT was about a man ruled by greed, it made him cruel and unforgiving. His main source of greed was his horses, he coveted them for their beauty. He wanted only the best, the most gorgeous of horses, anything less than pristine he would not tolerate.

When he saw a beautiful horse, he never rested until it was his own, through whatever means he could manage that would ensure his ownership. He cared only for young and gorgeous stallions, the old or sick would not be tolerated.

Well, one day he went out to his pasture and found among his horses an old white stallion with crooked legs, and matted fur. He flew into a rage upon seeing this and beat the horse until it fell it to the ground, stunned. He broke its legs with a club and left it to die.

That night he had a dream of the horse, only it turned into a beautiful stallion, white and shining with perfect mane and tail and it spoke to him.

It told him because of his cruelty, he (the Stallion) was going to take the man’s horses away. When the man awoke, he found all his horses gone, and he searched tirelessly for them, all day and fell asleep exhausted.

He was visited again in his dreams by that horse, and it told him where he could find his horses. He need only travel there. So, the man heeded the directions given to him and went north to a lake where he was told they were waiting for him.

But they were not there, and that night when he fell asleep, he was visited by the stallion again. He was given new directions, another location where he could find his horses waiting for him, and he hurried on.

But they were not waiting in this new place for him either. Each night he slumbered, he was visited by the white Stallion and told a new location to go to, promised that his horses would be waiting for him. Only they never were. It went on and on like this, endlessly. It’s said that he still wanders in search of his horses to this day.

You hustle your way to Sam and Dean, side-stepping and sliding through bodies to reach them. By the time you break through the crowd, they’re already turned in your direction, looking for you.

Sam’s the first to talk, hushed but neutral because anyone could be listening. You have to practically step on his toes to hear him. “We’ve got the go-ahead to look at the security tapes.”

You nod, crane your head to look at both of them. Well, Sam mostly, because Dean won’t make eye contact. “Okay, well, when we get back there,” you shrug, lips pausing on the vowel of your next sentence, and you simply alter your expression to something more serious.

Sam blinks, mildly surprised that you had something, like you’ve pulled it out of thin air when they weren’t looking, and nods, mostly in his chin before nudging Dean.

He’s been staring low, mapping out the floor with interest that’s forced beyond believability. If he doesn’t look at you, it’s almost like before. He can’t tell you’re emotionally drained if he doesn’t look at you. He can’t see you wince and pale when your eyes meet if he keeps his gaze away from you. He was in the middle of counting scratches on the stone floor when Sam jabbed him with his elbow.

It’s like some unspoken agreement, because he doesn’t glance in your direction, doesn’t so much as breath out of the side of his mouth as he walks toward the back. In his peripherals, he can see tanned thighs and long legs, fish nets, and bright stillettos, but the floor is safer, quieter.

He’s crowded, by drunk men and gorgeous women, the aroma of alcohol, the volume of the music. He’s suffocated by all of it, drowning. And there’s too much space between the two of you, too much room for everything else to weasel its way in. You didn’t crowd his space, _you_ were his space, and now you were continents away despite being right on his heels.

The urge to look over his shoulder is stronger, it’s got his muscles melting and his tendons on strings, and he feels pulled. So he follows. You’re staring at his back, determined to stay your course. You almost look tested, like someone has been asking you the same question for hours on end and you don’t have an answer.

You look out of place, not in a bad way. It’s almost like someone tried to sneak a Van Gogh into a Davinci gallery. You held a different air, a separate kind of appeal that clashed with was on display currently, and he could suddenly appreciate everything about you with more density.

All too soon, he’s pushing the door to the security room open and smashing himself against it as you pass him, your profile giving nothing away. Sam’s right behind, and regards Dean’s posture with some amusement, but pity gives way almost immediately.

Dean fills with stubbornness and callous purpose and Sam backs off with a huff. He joins you at the desk they have surveillance equipment set up on. The club has four cameras, one outside and the rest in. The ones in point at the stage from a far wall, a caddy-corner angle that can catch a perfect line-up of the seats right at front. Another watches the door, and the last guards the corner where men can get private dances.

The only camera you’re all interested in is camera 2 though.

You glance around at the technical equipment, scoffing at the low-grade surveillance. “I wonder if they…” you trail off as you look around, and dead-pan a smile when you see old DVR tapes sitting on top of an old tv. Sam and Dean match your look.

“They do realize it’s the 21st century, right?” Dean grumbles with dimpled cheeks, and you scoff a breath through your nose.

“Tuesday, look for Tuesday.” You say and Dean nods, leans over to browse along the labels. Sam pulls out another chair from under the desk, metal and foldable and just sits down in it when Dean peeks over his shoulder.

“What?” he snaps, overly whiny and points from Sam, to the tapes, to himself and then throws his hands out like ‘hello!’

Sam shrugs. “Doesn’t take two people to find a tape.” Before his brother can growl out a reply, he turns to you. “So, what was it you needed to talk about?”

Dean sighs but goes back to looking, keeping an ear turned in your direction. You settle in your chair, drum your fingers on the desk. “Right. Okay, so hear me out.”


	5. For Every Time That I Wanted To Say Sorry...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little more progress is made on the case, as well as a relationship, just not the one that's left you devastated. But it does seem like something is happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, people. I'm sorry, seriously. I had so much energy for this story, and then it all just died. Violently, and abruptly. And to be honest, I'm not quite back where I should be in terms of this story. Cranking out this chapter was actually difficult, if it's crap, I'm sorry. But I DID try. I won't promise regular updates on this because I hate to disappoint people, but it is on life support, so...don't expect a lot. Maybe I'll get my groove back soon.

“Okay, so we’ve got a murder horse trottin’ around.” Is the first thing that’s said when you get done explaining.

You hardly waste a second in throwing a ‘really?’ at Dean before you continue hypothesizing. “So, maybe it’s not the running around that kills people,” you say, watching Dean paw through stacks of tapes, squinting at dates.

Sam creaks his chair as he throws an arm over the back. “Then what is it?” he asks, not unkindly, because it makes sense given that they die from extreme exhaustion.

“It’s just- the original story, the guy is a greedy son of a bitch. That’s why he wanders after his horses like an idiot.” You bounce your leg, thinking, mind running. “He goes to the ends of the earth for his horses, no question, just _goes._ ” You frown, bite your lip.

“Yeah..?” says Sam, hoping you move on from bullet points and into the main body of your thesis.

“What if it’s not what they do, but how much? What they’re willing to go through to get what they want?” you suggest slowly, and Sam chews a cheek in response, brows jumping and flopping as he considers.

“Okay. So, Gary gets the two dollar bill, starts to dress nicer, eats better, buys a new car, gets a different haircut-“

“Takes dick enhancing drugs.” Dean interrupts tactlessly with a dry smirk that you can feel. You roll your eyes.

“Right.” Sam stares at Dean’s back, some remark on his tongue about how Dean will hit that problem in about ten years, and continues with the theorizing. “So, what then? The original story the guy never gets his horses-“

Dean spins, tape in hand with bright eyes. “Well, lets see if our guy gets his whore…s.” He smiles at his thinly veiled joke, pleased with himself despite two pairs of eyes flatly staring at him.

You gesture at the tv. “Lets.” He shoves the tape in, squats and asks over his shoulder.

“What time?”

“Uh, fast-forward to around 9. He got off work at 8, it’s a twenty minute drive to his house: he would’ve had to change before going to see his… _horse._ ” You direct, emphasizing the last word with metaphor and Dean snickers with mirth.

“Okey-doke,” he says, and plays the tape, “There’s our boy.” He nods, and points at Gary as he settles in middle seat, head-on with the center pole.

“Shouldn’t take long,” you muse. “His wife said he came in a little before ten, so…”

“So, our lovely lady will be taking center stage within the next fifteen minutes.” Dean finishes.

“Alright- a couple things,” Sam bursts beside you and you nod.

“Go ahead.” You tell him, eyes locked on the tv, watching Gary.

“Gary never mentioned dreams about a horse telling him to change his lifestyles choices,” Sam points out glancing at you in his peripherals.

“Well, neither did The Traveler. He just went and did the things the horse told him to, he didn’t talk to anyone about his dreams.” You shrug, you know Sam isn’t trying to shoot holes in your theory, in fact he seemed to readily follow your vein of thought. He was just looking at all the angles.

He grunts in thought, frowns and nods. “Um, okay. The Traveler never gets what he wants,” he sucks on his teeth, watching a long-haired blonde strut out on stage in six-inch heels. “Gary gave away that two dollar bill. Why?”

“Maybe it was time to pay up? Maybe the Stallion figured he was greedy enough to be punished?” You venture, watching this full-chested blonde dip down the pole, legs spread and arms stretched above her. Abstractly, you notice that Dean’s not even watching from his place next to the tv. He’s pouting at the floor, arms crossed.

“So, they die after they give up the bill, and they give it to the source of their greed.” He pipes up, brows furrowed.

You watch Gary pull an old looking bill from the breast pocket of his dress shirt, folded and offer it up to her. “They sure do.” You agree, tone dark and he finally looks at the screen to watch the transaction happen.

She doesn’t even flinch or blink as she snatches it, and continues on with her dance. Gary however, staggers to his feet, unsteady, and hobbles out of main screen. You can catch glimpses of him weaving and swaying his way through the crowd until he appears outside. It’s a bit dim, but you can already see dark circles under his eyes, and he looks significantly paler than he was a minute ago.

“Wow, this curse works quick.” Dean remarks with high eyebrows and stiff jaw, you and Sam nod in agreement.

You scratch at your chin, and wipe your hands on your pencil skirt, smoothing the material before you stand. “Alright, let’s see if the manager can tell us about Barbie there.” You say pointing at the tv as you click-clack out of the room.

Dean goes to follow, but is stopped by a simple look from Sam. It’s that annoying, know-it-all, unimpressed little brother look, and Dean’s already got come-backs prepared.

“You know she’s gonna leave after this case is done?” he asks, pissy and condescending.

Yeah, Dean knows. Of course he fucking knows. Jesus you’re already trying to leave. Rooms, conversations, eye contact. If you can get out of it, you are.

“Uh, yeah. We’re gonna leave too, unless you wanna look at real-estate? This town catch your eye, Sammy?” He snaps, trying for smart-ass but landing in hostile territory with terrible aim.

“No, but sometimes I wonder how the Hell you caught Y/N’s eye.” He stands, straightens the tie around his neck and doesn’t even react to the way that Dean tenses and glares at him.

“What does that mean?” Dean growls, hands clenching their way to fists.

“Just what I said. I’m sure if she knew what you were going to put her through she would have never given you her number.” He bites, fiery and sharp and fucking angry.

Dean blinks hard, smiles sarcastically, and hisses, “What?”

“I get it, sort of. Sending her off to protect her, because we are _the life-“_ Sam’s starting to breathe heavy, anger sharpening his words to a fine point. “But she’s already in it,” he says pointing towards the door. “And now she’s in it _alone_.”

Dean’s quiet, taking Sam’s words with a grain of salt, and less grace than that because he looks ready to punch his brother in the face.

“All because you were too scared to tell her that you love her.” Sam finishes, practically growling at Dean in disdain.

Dean bristles all over, muscles tightening and curling around tendons and ligaments, and his jaw clamps shuts. Yeah, Sam hit it on the head. He was scared, not that you wouldn’t reciprocate…he was just scared. Love never worked out for him, someone always ended up dying. He was scared of losing you, of one day waking up and not seeing you in bed next to him because some hunt had stolen you from him. He was scared of fucking everything up.

Because, confessing your love is like a mile-stone, right. Where everything gets serious and real and close…Close enough that you’d see how ugly he is, how unworthy, how unqualified he was. You’d see everything about him, and be disappointed because he isn’t the white knight you think he is.

“I’m not.” He protests on habit, still fighting because that’s what he does, even when the fight’s lost.

Sam stares, watches as Dean deflates, confronts himself while he argues, and shakes his head, stomping away.

He stops in the doorway though, pauses and shifts on his feet, contemplating until…”You’re scared.” And he walks away, leaving Dean to wrestle with himself.

This time it’s your turn to gape at Sam because he’s stomping, a harsh pace straight toward you, and he doesn’t move for anybody. They either get out of his way or they’re shoved sideways under the brunt of his anger and formidable physique.

He stops in front of you, and you try not to stare too hard at the way he’s glaring at anything that moves.

“Um-“ his gaze snaps to you so quick you almost hear it, and flounder a second at the fury in his usually soft hazel eyes. “So, I got her address.” You say, measuring your words, not sure if less is more or what.

He nods. “Good. Let’s go.” And he brushes past you, a hand on your elbow and you frown behind him. You don’t know that you’ve ever seen Sam so angry, and to be honest, you’re worried.

You hurry after him, no thoughts except talking to him and finding out what’s got him so upset. Once upon a time, before Dean pushed you away, you and Sam were closer than chocolate and peanut butter. Ooh, that sounded nice.

You catch up just outside, and snatch at the back of his suit jacket. He stops, and turns and you hesitate because you’re not sure how to approach.

So, you just jump in, head first. “What’s wrong with you?”

He actually cracks a short laugh. “No points for subtlety, Y/N.”

You shrug unabashed and wait for an answer. He can’t exactly dodge it.

He shakes his head, “Dean pisses me off sometimes.” He says like he’s delivering news, and you break a smile, a laugh to go with it.

“Only sometimes?” you ask, incredulous with bewildered features.

He teeter-totters his head back and forth, breathes deep as he utters words that are mostly vowels because he’s trying not to smile with you. “I’ve built up a resistance,” he eventually says, and drags his tongue over his teeth, fully aware that his laughing lines are making an appearance.

“You lucky man,” you say half sarcastic, half jealous. He blinks, looks away down the street, and you see the anger fall off of him, only for something else to take its place.

“You know you could’ve called me, right?” he asks suddenly, not willing to meet your eyes. You lower your gaze to his tie, recognizing it as the one he wore when you all first met. Jeez, they need to spruce up their fed suits. “I know you and Dean were taking a break, but you didn’t have to leave me too.” He says, and looks at you, all manner of hurt and sorry at the same time.

You stutter, finally understanding why he’s been clinging to the air around you since he saw you, and it wasn’t because he felt sorry about you and Dean- which he did, of course he did- but simply because he missed you.

“I-…I’m sorry, Sam.” You say, blinking back against your stinging eyelids. “I didn’t think…” you trail off, and clear your throat.

He nods absently with a wry smile. “Yeah…that seems to be a common theme lately.” He remarks knowingly. After a pause where you merely look at him with apologetic eyebrows, he shakes his head, squeezes your shoulder and starts for the car.

You watch him go, frowning guiltily.

“He shit-stirring with you too?” Dean asks, suddenly there and prickly with indignation.

You shuffle back in surprise, clasp a hand over your chest, feeling your heart beating away like it’s got somewhere to be other than behind your ribcage. “What-? No.” you breathe at him with confusion in your tone, and he frowns towards the car.

You notice how quick he was to jump to your side, to your defense. Like you can’t damn well defend yourself. But you squint at it anyway, analyzing something that might not even be there.

Dean flicks his gaze at you, chews a lip and then sighs. “He really missed you, you know?” he murmurs, and he sounds damn guilty, like it’s his fault you didn’t text Sam, or call him, or keep in touch with your best friend.

You sigh too. “Yeah, I know.” You nod, lick your lips, and wait for something else to join the sounds of distant traffic, and trash skitter down the sidewalk on a breeze. You wait for him to say something. But he doesn’t. And you wait on yourself, hoping you’ll find courage to give him words that have been on your tongue for days.

But he coughs and you blink, and you both nod at each other before heading to the car.


	6. I'd Probably Be Able To Buy A Plane Ticket To Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Huh. This stripper is pretty normal, if you ignore the fact that she's Russian, illegal, and harboring a cursed object...and looks good in over-sized sweaters. Some people have all the luck, right? But the end is in view and for that, you're grateful. But you also don't want to admit that it's close to being over. You're still talking about the hunt...right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, I'm updating this. Holy crap. It's been a while, hasn't it? Mm, I've got this story mapped out, again, for the third time...and I think I know what I'm doing...but don't expect any miracles on my end. Just saying. Also- God, I love an 'also' -I've taken to not proofreading any of my shit. So...

“So, what exactly are we going to say when we get there?” you wonder aloud in the back-seat, arms crossed, and Dean turns down the radio to respond.

“I dunno, we could try feeding her some crap about it being government property?” he suggests, and you look at Sam to see if he has a different or better idea, but he just shrugs, _I got nothing._

“Cool.” You dead-pan, and Dean smiles a little.

“What, you forget we sometimes fly blind?” he asks, smirks at your scowl in the rear-view and you harrumph before retaliating.

“And what would you know about flying, Mr. Terrified-of-Heights?” you snip with a haughty eyebrow, he glares at you but Sam barks a laugh and nods, praising you.

“Okay.” Dean grumps, trying to regain control of the conversation, but he isn’t close to being irritated. Far from it. You giving him sass and bantering with him is as close as he can get to the normal you guys were before he made an idiot move. “We’ll just get there, and see how it goes, huh?”

You smile sweetly and shrug. “Sure, sounds like an almost-plan.”

Dean rolls his eyes and tuts. “I’d say you’re almost a pain in my ass…”

You slide closer, resting your forearms on the front seat. “Them’s fighting words. Let’s take this outside, Winchester.” You say with a thick southern drawl, and honestly it’s not awful.

Dean shakes his head, smiles and looks at you, finds you smiling back and you both-

‘Oh, shit.’

-and look away quick, confused and thrown off balance. Sam rolls his eyes at the both of you and how stubborn you’re both being about this. Pointlessly stubborn, because it’s easy to see. Easy enough that you both should know.

“Right then. We’ll just wing it.” Sam says, biting a smile, and turns to look out his window. He has a feeling that soon this whole mess will be behind all of you, and things will be back to the way they were before, maybe even better.

Soon enough, you’re pulling up outside the stripper’s house, and you blink at its appearance. It’s way more simple, and down-to-earth than you expected, just a little brick, colonial style house, big enough for her. The yard is immaculately trimmed, and she has a cute flower bed under the windows on either side of the door, they look like cosmos, or maybe they’re morning glories, you don’t know. Flowers aren’t really your thing.

“Wow,” Dean says, head cocked and lips pursed, and you nod, knowing where his thoughts lie. Somewhere near yours.

“Cookie-cutter, minus the husband and kids.” You say for him, and he hums, creaking his door open.

As you walk up the sidewalk, you idly notice that Dean is hanging back, behind you and Sam and you find that a margin strange. He always took point; on everything. Before you can think up a reason in his shift in behavior, Sam is knocking on the door and you straighten yourself to something more official.

You don’t have to wait long before the door swings open and you’re all staring at a stripper in her off-time, and you’re a little embarrassed to have been thinking she’d answer the door in a sparkly thong with tassels hanging from her boobs.

Instead, she’s appropriately dressed for the coming winter: thick wool sweater that hangs to her thighs, and sleeves that swallow up her hands. She has ‘hand-knit’ socks pulled up over her jeans, and you’re somehow put off by the fact that she looks cute in all that material, whereas you’d look like a kid playing dress-up in her mom’s closet.

“Can I help you?” she asks, looking at all of you in turn and you about burst into flames on the spot because-

‘Does she have a fucking Russian accent?!’

Dean peeks up too, an eyebrow at high-mast, sweeps her quick, and then glances at you sidelong wondering why you’re vibrating hard enough to start an earthquake.

If Sam notices the silence behind him, he doesn’t let on. He flashes his badge, as well as a polite smile that belies nothing. “We’re with the FBI, we’d like to ask you some questions.” Sam’s always been the better actor out of all of you…usually.

Maybe you imagine it, but something flashes in her eyes, something like apprehension. She smiles sweetly, and invites you all in. Maybe you don’t give the boys enough credit, because they hardly look at Milla Petrov, well, Sam doesn’t. As for Dean…

You glance over your shoulder innocently, just checking for the sake of checking…

His eyebrows pop up, and he turns his head a little, _What’s up?_

Inwardly, you laugh at yourself, at your old habits, and you ineffectively fight a wry smile. You wave your hand at him, shake your head, _Nothin’._

You need to get your shit together, and right quick too because you’re all in her living room and headed for the couch. You aim for the cushion on the far left, waiting for Sam to sink down in the middle.

But he glides right passed and sits on the other end, ignoring the hard stare you throw at him by feigning interest in some little Russian-oriented knick-knack on an end table. Dean is just as thrown off because he stubs his toe into the coffee table’s leg on the way to the couch.

He sinks down beside you, twitching a frown, and you fight one of your own while Milla sits down across from all of you in an armchair, clasping her hands together over crossed knees.

_How…proper,_ you think. Then again, maybe she’s just nervous, especially considering her situation.

“So, what do you want to know?” she asks, and her accent makes the last three words sort run together pleasantly. This would be the moment that Dean’s head takes a trip to mother Russia and all of its wonderful entertainment, but somehow, he manages to be present.

“We have a few questions regarding a man named Gary Penning…”

The line of questioning goes nowhere, even when you tell her that you have footage of Gary tipping her, and even on a couple instances, paying her for a private dance. But she says that she doesn’t the money, probably spent it somewhere, and when asked where, tells you that she doesn’t remember.

But she’s too calm regarding these questions, all the anxiety just rolled off her when the questions became about Gary and this two-dollar, and she seemed robotic, like she was reading off a list. Rehearsed was a good way to describe her responses, and who the hell would tell her what to say, why would it be so important to protect as shitty a tip as a two-dollar bill?

Because she has it, and the stupid Stallion was protecting her ass. So, why not just take it off her, Y/N?

And you stand to do just that, the gesture speaking volumes because she stiffens and stands as well. You take a step towards her, not listening to that little voice in your head called ‘reason’, and suddenly Dean’s there with hands on your shoulders, and a sorry/appealing smile on his face.

“You’ll have to forgive agent Simmons, she hasn’t eaten all day and tends to get a little cranky,”

_Not entirely untrue, but not completely true._

He starts pushing you toward the front hallway, the door and you go, only so you can glare at him over your shoulder, using your short stature to your advantage. You hear Milla mutter something in Russian, and you know it’s about you, so you dig your heels in, and Dean sighs behind you, pushing harder.

When you reach the hallway, you spin and scowl up at him, and he looks so unfazed, so bored you have to wonder if he was right. Because he’d do this in the past when you’d get hangry; be completely uninvolved and passive, a little unamused.

“What are you doing?” you hiss at him, and he rolls his eyes.

“Stopping you from doing something stupid,” he says lightly, like 2+2=4. “Last thing we need is the real FBI on our ass because you beat the shit out of a Russian stripper-“

“She has the two-dollar bill,” you tell him, pursing your lips and he nods,

“I know but-“

“She wouldn’t call it in; she isn’t even here legally.” You cross your arms, and tip your chin up at him, certain and angry and a little proud.

“I know. That’s our leverage; not your fists, Chuck Norris.” He quips and this time you roll your eyes. “Look, you’re like a damn bomb right now-“ he shrugs, puts his hands up when you scoff and glare, and continues. “and you’re not exactly subtle when you’re like this. Just wait in the car, and after we get this stupid bill, we’ll-“

“Yeah, ok, whatever.” You interrupt him, already on your way to a pout, and he shakes his head with a smile.

“Ten minutes, if that.” He promises, and reaches around you to open the door. You sigh, long and suffering about it, pausing on the threshold, and he presses a hand low on your back. “Ten minutes.” And ushers you out the door.

You hear the door click behind you, and whine in the back of your throat, well and truly pouting. And then you stand for a moment, blinking in the sunshine, and reach back to scratch at the place Dean’s hand was, marveling at the fact that you can still feel the imprint of his fingers, the warmth, the size, the tingles…and then you shake your head, and slump your way to the Impala.

_Nine minutes_ , you think _. He’s got nine minutes, and then I’m hotwiring Baby and getting a cheeseburger._

 


	7. But The Truth Is...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, so this case turned out to be a dead-end. Go figure. Typical, just typical. You have no semblance of luck. Oh well, at least you get to eat a greasy cheeseburger and sit down with your best-friend and his brother at a diner. As far as goodbyes go, this won't be that ba- Where'd Sam go? ...that motherfucker.   
> Like I said, "No semblance of luck."

Dean sighs, watching you walk down the footpath, heels click-clacking. But more importantly, he watched the way you lingered, the way you felt where he had touched you, the way you tried to subtly chase the contact.

He rubs a hand over his mouth, sees you disappear into the back seat of the impala and tries to guess how many more times he’s going to see you there. The number he comes up with is low, too low, and he’s starting to think if he doesn’t tell you he’s going to be a dead man walking.

Finally, he convinces himself to keep his promise and turns on his heel to go back to the living room, only to stop before he can take a step. She’s there, breathing his damn air, breaking his personal space bubble and he doesn’t have anywhere to go.

He opens his mouth to speak, but she inches closer, bright blue eyes on him with intent, purpose he can’t figure out until she takes his hand and slips something into it. He doesn’t get a second to react, but he does think, _Of-fucking course_.

He knows what it is, and he knows what he has to do…

A second later the sound of Sam’s shoes scuffing the floor reaches the hallway and Milla takes a few steps back, blinking in confusion. Dean though, feels calm, he feels…certain.

Sam emerges around the corner and balks at the two of them in the hallway, and then he scowls a little at Dean, drawing an assumption. Dean glares right back, offended beyond rational offense and speaks up.

“Come on, we’re leaving.”

When Sam falters his expression, flips through them all like he can’t decide, Dean sharpens his gaze, implores a smidge more with a flat look and turns to open the door. If Sam thinks of protesting, he doesn’t. Wisely, he thanks Ms. Petrov for her time, and apologizes for bothering her. She just nods, sort of in a daze and sees them out.

Sam’s pissy on the walk to the car, but he gathers enough to say, “She doesn’t have the money.”

Dean looks at him, brief and almost too fast, undedicated because he had to pull his gaze away from you to do it. “Nope, she doesn’t have it.” He reaffirms for Sam, and creaks his door open.

“Damn,” you pipe up before he even sits down. “Two more minutes and I would’ve made off with Baby.” Dean smiles at you in the rear-view, bright and unfaltering, and you blink repeatedly, puzzled.

Sam ducks in and breaks your stare, and gives you a reason to talk, which you’re grateful for. “She didn’t have the bill?” you ask him, incredulous, skeptical.

Sam shrugs, gestures toward Dean to implicate him. “I guess not.”

Feeling both pairs of eyes on him, Dean huffs. “Look, I threatened her about her illegal citizenship, and she didn’t give anything up,” he turns the keys, lets the engine rumble and then shrugs. “I mean, since she’s had the cursed bill, it doesn’t seem like she’s changed her life at all…I’m telling you, she doesn’t have it,” he adds, nodding at you and Sam.

You share a look with Sam, both of you suspicious, not ready to believe that this was a dead-end…

Dean notices. “Look, I’m not happy about it either, but we got nothing…until another body shows up, we don’t a have a direction to go.”

You bite your cheek, flicker your gaze between the two of them and then speak up. “So…case over?”

Sam sighs, shakes his head in confusion and then huffs and irritated breath, _Guess so._ Dean on the other hand goes rigid, and grips the steering wheel so tight that skin catches and creaks, and he’s looking at you in the rear-view with something you think is dread. And that makes you feel guilty, churns your stomach, so you look away, and take a second to lean over and slip your heels off.

By the time you come back up, Dean is rubbing at his forehead, perplexed and stiff and frowning so hard you’d think someone had taken a headlight out on Baby. He glances at you, so lightly and sharp you’re sure he didn’t actually see you at all.

“Wanna get something to eat?” he asks slowly, as if he’s reaching across miles and numerous insults rather than a few feet and concerned thoughts on your behalf, and you swallow back emotions that have no business being in the same space as Dean.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. I could eat.” You tell him, and he brightens immediately, happier than a dog with a bone, and turns the radio on.

You furrow your brows and look at Sam, wondering if he’s picking up on this weird behavior, but all he’s doing is smiling, smirking out his window, unconcerned. So, you try to be the same, at least until Dean changes the radio station from classic rock to something you always listen to.

That’s when you become unsettled and wary about him. For the last 5 or 6 hours, you both had been tip-toeing around each other out of mutual reluctance. Nothing between you except cordial familiarity, workplace politeness, and suddenly he’s trying to make for lost time: smiling, agreeing to your preferences, talking because he wants to, just _looking_ at you, and you don’t know what to do.

No one changes that fast, especially someone as stubborn as Dean. He didn’t know how to throw the towel in, giving up wasn’t in his DNA and neither was change. You had been counting, expecting him to get through this case with a stick up his ass. You would’ve bet your right hand that he’d try to keep you as far away as possible until you were in the rear-view, disappearing into the distance.

After what had happened between you two, you figured he’d continue to treat you like a stranger whose name he knew. Suddenly, he does 180 and he’s paying attention to you with zealous purpose, as if the two of you aren’t hours away from never seeing each other again.

“Y/N?”

You jerk a little, and clear your throat. “Yeah, what?”

Dean’s grinning lop-sidedly as if you just told a joke, and tries to catch your gaze in the mirror, but you keep your eyes on your knees, frowning at a couple snags in your panty-hos. “What are you in the mood for?”

You frown harder. You can’t remember a time that Dean ever took anyone’s opinions of where to eat into consideration, everybody always had to eat what _he_ was in the mood for.

“Um,” you scratch at your jaw, starting to wonder if you’re reading too much of anything into everything because Sam doesn’t seem fazed by Dean’s weird behavior. Even though something gnaws at your stomach, you shove it aside and try to bask in Dean’s random desire to accommodate, his oddly smooth edges and force yourself to make eye contact with him.

“Same-old, same-old, I guess.” You tell him and flash a quick smile you’re sure doesn’t reach your eyes but he perks up anyway.

You’re almost worried about him driving, what with all this conversation and eye-contact he’s trying to create, you’re certain he’s barely paying attention to the road. But, hey, you face death every day; dying in a car crash seems like the best way to go, all things considered.

You’re not prepared for how hard ‘same-old, same-old’ hits you staring at a quaint diner. You’re also not prepared to remember your last encounter with Dean…at a diner. If you try, and you don’t have to, you can still see his face in your mind after you’d told him you loved him.

His expression had haunted you since that day. He had looked so tortured, so broken and lost, and you couldn’t figure out why. You press your lips together, looking at all the people inside enjoying their food, enjoying their lives…they make it look so easy.

“I’ll see you guys later,” Sam says and opens his door, and you flash your gaze to him so fast the air practically hisses with it.

“What-? Where are you going?” you ask him, hoping you don’t sound as helpless and nervous as you feel.

He swings his legs out of the car and looks at you over his shoulder, his brow creased. “Across the street. I just said-“ he breaks off, and then jerks his head in the direction he plans on going.

Some other restaurant, most like with healthier choices of food, and you nod, resolute. Dean is watching the both of you with flat lips and tight shoulders, squinting at the air between you and Sam.

“Ookay.” You tell Sam with a big sigh and he smiles at you before launching himself out of the car. You watch his ginormous legs take him across the parking lot, and try to convince yourself that you don’t need him as a buffer.

But with the way that Dean’s locked on you, you’re not so sure. Your skin basically crackles every time he looks at you, and the guilt that’s settled into your blood makes the combination something that rusts and aches around your chest.

“Ready?”

You nod again, mostly because your throat feels tight, and shove your feet back into your heels. Just as you reach for the door handle, Dean’s pulling it open for you and offering a hand. You didn’t even hear him leave the car.

“Thanks,” you say, taking his hand even though it’s un-needed. But you don’t want to be an asshole, so… “God, I hate these heels.” You complain, just to take up the silence, and Dean shuts the door.

His lips twitch, move a little in hesitation, and he glances at you a couple times in his peripherals as you both walk towards the diner. “You look good in them, though.”

Jeez. Is a compliment supposed to hurt? Because it does. “Hm. I look better in boots and plaid.” You say, and you’re pretty sure _that_ does make you an asshole.

Dean gets to the door first and holds it open for you, smirking. “True.”

_Why is he being so…nice? And considerate? And attentive? Did I miss a memo or something?_ You think as you lead the way to a booth in the back, habitually noticing how every woman in the diner not tied down stares at the owner of the loud foot-falls behind you.

You force yourself not to glare at them, because that right doesn’t belong to you anymore.

The seat is cold, cold enough that you frown, and then you realize you’re sitting underneath a vent. Dean notices too.

“You want to sit somewhere else?” he asks, clocking in on the goosebumps quickly rising on your arms and neck.

“nah, I’ll get used to it.” You say, and swipe some imaginary crumbs off the table. You hear fabric rustle and look up to see Dean shrugging out of his suit jacket and you-

_Don’t you fucking dare, I swear to God if you-_

“Here,” and he holds it out to you, around the edge of the table, and you resist the urge to grimace and pinch the bridge of your nose. That ball in the back of your throat seems to be growing.

“Thanks.” You block out two things: one of them is the scent of Dean that clings to his jacket, all gunpowder and leather, maybe a tinge of sweat- shit, you’re not supposed to notice that -and the other thing is the way that starch white shirt settles around his shoulders and strains on his arms.

_I really suck at pretending,_ you admit to yourself when Dean’s jacket finally rests on your shoulders.

Your waitress for the day stops by with menus, and questions for drinks. And for seconds, extra time to stare at Dean, size up his proportions and the space he takes up, and you want nothing more than to glower at her and threaten to snap her fake nails off for looking at him.

But you don’t. Instead, you toe off your heels, and pretend the relief from that also relieves of your current discomfort and denial. Hey, you like to dream big sometimes.

You pick up the menu- you hide behind it, and consider your choices. Choices that aren’t food, choices that have absolutely nothing to do with edibles and absolutely everything to do with people- a person. Shit, people weren’t supposed to see each other after they broke up. Much less sit down at a diner and have fucking lunch together.

You chance a peek at Dean, and find him with hands clasped on top of his closed menu, pouting and thinking, eyelashes fanning down over freckled cheeks, and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to chase away the sting in your eyes.

And it hits you. This is quite possibly the last time you’ll see Dean. Ever. Because if you walk away from him again, it will be final. You’ll do everything you can to never lay eyes on him again.

Steeling yourself, you slap your menu down, and his dark greens shoot up to look at you.

“The usual?” you ask him, smiling like you’re in a condition to smile, and he beams.

“If by ‘usual’ you mean you stealing half of my food…” he pauses to let you roll your eyes, and smirks with more force. “Then, yeah. I was thinking the usual.”

It’s too close, too familiar. “Of course, that means you also have to pick up the tab.” You quirk a brow, challenging him.

“Worth it.” He says, looking right at you, headier and warmer than you can ever remember him looking at you, and you’ve got no comeback, no sass.

So you hum a laugh and twitch a smile, and holds his gaze like you aren’t dying inside. You plan on leaving this diner on good terms, better than the last time you left him at a diner. But that won’t be hard to beat. Long as you don’t punch him, you’ve done better.

You’re waiting. On him. On yourself. The damn waitress.

But you mostly wait on him. It seems like he’ll be the first to give something up, he appears a lot more open for whatever reason. You tap your fingers on the lacquered wood, let your thoughts wander like your eyes do over the table: without direction, slow.

And Dean, he’s contemplating something, something serious because he’s quiet now and chewing on a lip.

Your waitress arrives, a god-send and death sentence all wrapped up in an apron and tan pumps. You’re not in the mood to talk, you’re sure that if you open your mouth you’ll end up getting kicked out of this diner, so you play with the wrapper for your straw and let Dean order. Just like old-times.

Fuck. This is so like old-times, except that it isn’t because you can’t rest your feet in his lap, or seductively tease the fuck out of him like you used to, and you’re also on the verge of having a meltdown. But he’s trying, trying so hard to make it feel familiar and easy, and it claws at you viciously.

He doesn’t even look at the waitress, he’s too busy wondering why you’re so quiet, why the edges of your mouth are tugged down into a frown, and he’s so afraid it’s because of him.

“So,” he speaks up, hoping to break you out of your thoughts and you wobble your eyes to meet his own. “I just wanted to say: great job cracking this case open. That was really something.”

You stare at him, blink owlishly. “Are you…are you being a sarcastic piece of shit?” you say, and toss your balled-up straw at him, managing to smile.

He holds his hands up, palms out. “No, no. Dead serious-“

“Well, you would know something about being dead-“

He scowls a little. “It was pretty awesome.”

You shrug. “It didn’t change anything. That money is still out there, we still have to lock it up tight-“

He shakes his head, roll his eyes. “Can’t you just take a compliment, and say thank you?”

You sigh, drag a finger down the condensation on the outside of your glass. “Thanks. For trying to give me credit.”

He clicks his tongue, dimples a cheek and looks around the diner, hoping to find something to spark up another conversation. He’s craning his neck and straining his peripherals when something occurs to him, and he snaps back to look at you.

“You said ‘we’.”

You frown, pinch your eyebrows. “What?”

He puts his forearms on the table and leans forward. “You said that the money is still out there and that ‘we’ have to lock it up tight.” He looks so hopeful, so damn open and fragile and soft, and you feel like the bad guy. He’s making it so easy to forget who did what, and who didn’t do anything, he’s making it so easy to forgive.

But the truth is, you’re still hurt, and you don’t fully trust him. You don’t trust this shift in character enough to give up the bearings.

“You said ‘we’.” He repeats, and it’s quieter this time, gentler, and you realize he’s asking, pleading with his eyes…

You sigh, drop your gaze. “Dean…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, how have we all been? I assume y'all have been waiting, so, you're probably a little pissed: the wait on this story is like the line at Starbucks during the holiday season. *coughs* -Anyway, I'm closing in on the end of this story; most likely 3 more chapters. I'm guessing *squints*...it all depends on my motivation. Sorry for the disappearing acts I constantly pull. Take it easy, lovelies. Life is rough.


	8. I'd Rather Spend Time With You Than Money On Anything Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow, look at this truth getting spilled all over the table. Never thought you'd see the day, so of course you haven't. You knew something was weird with Dean, you're only disappointed that it took this long to figure it out. Good thing you're not a detective. Let's hope Sam can figure something out because you're (not) freaking out. You're totally cool, completely calm, and not two seconds away from having a melt-down.

He waits expectantly, more patient than you would ever think of giving him credit for, and you think maybe this the only chance you’ll get; here, in this diner, on an awkward date- thing. It’s perfect honestly, everything is so murky and there haven’t been enough questions, there’s plenty of room to have a talk.

“What did you do while we were on a break?” you ask him, staring at the table and the small puddle gathered around your glass, and you realize it sounds like you’re changing the subject, but not for you. This subject has been on your mind for weeks, non-stop for every single second of every day, and it’s kept you up countless nights and plagued the sunshine of your mornings with staleness.

You hear the fake leather of his seat creak, and fabric whisper when he leans back into it. But his hands rest limp on their sides on top of the table. When he doesn’t say anything, you wonder if you put the lid on his ‘sharing-and-caring’ jar, and sigh through your nose.

“You know what I did?” you say, knowing full-well he doesn’t have a clue.

“…no.” he finally says, and you’ve never heard a word spoken so cautiously in your life, like he thought it was the detonator on whatever the hell your relationship was now.

You take a deep breath, feeling the weakest protest of your lungs as they flutter, and take to staring at his hands. “I went to diners alone and ordered our usual,”

Dean pulls a long breath through his nose, blinks a little, watches the way you dip your head so you can put everything except his hands out of your view. He doesn’t know what to do, he knows what he wants to do, but it probably isn’t what you want, so he keeps his mouth shut and listens.

“and then I’d get something different because it wasn’t the ‘usual’ anymore. It was just a cheeseburger and fries…”

Dean feels a sad smile tug his lips, because he did the exact same thing, every damn time they went to eat. Something pulls at his chest, a pressure, cold and sharp and he winces a little, but he brushes it off and listens because you need him to listen. He never did that before: listened to you. He’d do better, he’d be better.

“And motels-“ you break off and huff a laugh, all quiet air and sarcastic twitches of your lips. “I always glared at the receptionist because-“

“They all eye-fuck me.” He finishes for you with a small laugh, and a wide smile, and you nod a few times, smiling yourself.

“Everyone eye-fucks you,” you say on a sigh and flourish your hand towards the rest of the diner, but he doesn’t look.

“Yeah. I know…I don’t care.” He sits straighter, fills his lungs and gathers words, words that feel like they ball up in the middle of his chest with sharp edges and bitter weight. “Did you ever think about calling, me, I mean?” his eyes coast along your jaw-line, dip to your throat, and he watches the muscles there remain still.

Must be his turn to talk. He rubs a hand over his mouth. “I did, a lot. I lost track of how many times I hovered over the call button, how many times I’d type a text and then delete it…” he admits, stirs his coke with his straw to listen to the ice bump and clack against the glass.

You blink fast, press your lips together and wonder what the end-game is for all of this. You’d love to ask him…but you’re terrified to know. “Yeah…” you murmur quietly, and hear him suck in a breath. “Me too.”

He inches forward again, holding onto his breath and his ability to look at you like he used to instead of memorizing because he thinks he may never see you again.

But if that’s the case, he doesn’t have anything to lose because he might lose you anyway. You’re locked in on the table, stubbornly trying not to look at him and he thinks that’s strange; you’re usually so ballsy and fearless.

“Y/N,” your eyes flicker towards him, but detour quick to peer at the ketchup and salt and pepper shakers. “Are we…do you-“ he sighs at himself, rubs his eyes because they feel heavy and gritty at the corners, and then you do look up and you squint.

Had he looked that tired all day? Maybe he just needs to eat?

You smile gently, catching the waitress in your peripherals. “We can talk more after we eat.” You tell him, and he blinks at you slowly through a haze, manages to nod reluctantly.

But he does straighten and ease around the edges when his food is placed in front of him, and you pack away your worry for a minute. You peek out the window, across the street, and wonder if Sam’s done eating, if he needs a ride, or if he’s stranded.

You dig your phone out of the waistband of your skirt, and dial him. Dean watches you while he squirts some ketchup on the edge of his plate and reaches for the salt with his other arm.

“Hey,” you say when Sam picks up, and can vaguely hear background noise of the restaurant. Hearing Sam talk to you is a relief because there’s nothing new or different between you and him. You’re both the same as always, there’s no riddle to figure out and that puts you at ease far more than you let on. “You good, or are you sitting all by your lonesome?”

Dean can’t hear what Sam says, but it makes you smile, a real smile that brightens your eyes and he takes a large bite of his burger to keep his mouth shut.

“Okay, well, feel free to join us, health-nut.” You can practically feel Sam rolling his eyes and you grin. “Bye, Sam.”

You drop your phone onto the table and finally look at your food. Your stomach growls at you loud enough to rattle your rib-cage and you concede that maybe you were hangry back at that stripper’s house. Something still claws at you about the case; the sudden disappearance of the cursed object, the way that it was all so abruptly ‘over’…

But you catch a whiff of cheeseburger and fries and put it on the back-burner. You grab the salt and ketchup from the middle of the table where Dean left them and pipe up, “This looks like heaven.”

He grunts around a mouthful of food, swallows. “You invited Sam.”

You’re not sure if it’s question or not, but you nod. “yeah, I figured- he’s eating all alone, and I don’t know…eating alone sucks.” You force a smile at him, and he winces like you’ve poked him in the side with a needle.

He frowns at the burger in his hands, like it’s the sandwich’s fault he’s so goddamned stupid. “You want him to join us?” he asks, and that accommodating tone is back in his voice, like he’s ready to jump off a cliff at your word.

You shrug a little, dip a fry in ketchup. “I mean, it’d be nice for all us to be together one last time-“

Dean drops his burger onto his plate from half-way to his mouth and the insides slip out from between the bun. He’s gone a little wide-eyed, stiff as a board and you meet his eyes…

“Fuck- I’m sorry.” You shake your head, flop back into your seat, and grimace at yourself while Dean tries to fix his lunch. You hadn’t meant to say that, you didn’t want to say that. You wanted the exact opposite of what you said: you didn’t want there to be a last time.

“It’s okay.” He says, even though he shakes his head while he says it, and he takes a second to push his fries around his plate, clearing a spot for his cheeseburger. He rubs at the bags under his eyes-

_Bags? Those were not there a few minutes ago, Y/N._

“Um-“ he pauses, pinches his mouth into a stiff pout, closes his eyes and bursts a quick exhale. “What do you want, Y/N?” your eyebrows pop at the question, and you stare at your plate, hoping the potatoes and cow will have an answer.

He scoots to the edge of his seat, rib-cage almost touching, and brackets the area of his lunch with his forearms. “From me. What do you want from me?” he clarifies, dipping his head to try and catch your eyesight.

“What do I-?” you cut off, puzzled and frayed at the edges, and so close to letting the last couple of months pour out of you, but you lick your lips and drag your hands down your cheeks. “Don’t you think that question’s a little late?”

“Yeah, it is. But I still want to know.” He says, suddenly alert and sharp despite the fatigue in his eyes.

“I don’t know-“ you crack a laugh at him, and pull yourself upright. “This has never been about what I want,” You tell him, biting a lip and he blinks a frown at you. “This has been about you figuring out what you want from me. I’ve already put too much on the table, and I don’t want to be the one that walks away empty-handed…again.”

He stares at you, unblinking, unmoving, dark green eyes boring into yours. “Who says you have to walk away at all?”

You scoff, tilt your head. “Are you serious? Oh my God, you’re serious.” you say, and pinch the bridge of your nose. “You did, when you decided we needed to take an un-explained break.” Here it is, all bubbling to the surface, and there it is, his guiltless expression that accompanies founded accusation.

_Don’t punch him. Remember, leave on good- better -terms than last time._

“Why do you suddenly want me to stay?” you question him, putting some fire in your words, some skepticism.

His face goes blank for a few seconds, and his eyes kind glaze over, like he’s sleepwalking and you narrow your eyes, feeling that ball in your stomach roll around a bit.

And then he’s snapping back, focused and serious. “I just-…I want…whatever it takes to make you happy.”

Sirens, red-flashing lights. Stop signs. These things pop into your head with his words.

And you almost punch yourself in the face for being this stupid. You knew better, or at least you thought you did. Jeez, for someone that cracked this case open, you’re pretty damn blind.

You flatten your stare at him, whet your lips, and tap your fingers on the table like you’re properly pissed off at him and not completely fucking worried. “Okay.” You say, sounding far less agreeable than the word suggests and Dean relaxes a fraction.

“I honestly would like it if Sam did join us,” this time, he doesn’t stiffen, this time he nods quickly, and looks out the window towards the other restaurant. “Do you think you could-“ you jam a thumb in Sam’s direction and then loosely gesture toward your table, and he’s nodding again, sliding out of the seat.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it- be back in two shakes with a moose.” He says, and flashes you a smile high on sunshine and relief. Happy to please.

Dean’s not even made it out of the diner before you’re calling Sam. He picks up relatively quickly.

“Hey, Y/N, how’s it- why’s Dean-“

“Sam,” you interrupt him, not even able to help the crack in your voice and you don’t care. “Dean’s got the two-dollar bill.”

“What- how?” he says, confused, already leaping toward worried.

“I don’t know, but trust me. He has it.” You think over the past hour with Dean and know you’re right.

“Ok,” he says deep, “Well, he’s on his way over here. You got a plan?”

“Fuck- I don’t know,” you whine at him, feeling your eyelids begin to sting. “I don’t know, Sam.”

“Alright, Y/N, calm down. We’ll figure this out, ok?” he soothes you, and you wipe at a cheek, swiping an errant tear away.

You look out the window, and find Dean waiting at a cross-walk. “Yeah…okay. Um, we just gotta figure out what it is he wants most, right? And keep him away from it, or fuck- no, that won’t work.”

He clears his throat, drags in a breath. “Maybe there’s a loop-hole in this curse?”

You close your eyes, rest your forehead in your palm and sniffle. “Like what?”

There’s a pause on his end, and you wonder how he’s got time to waste when his brother is basically a dead man walking. “I don’t know, yet.”

You groan at him, and drop your head to the table, staring at your heels on the floor. “This is a goddamn cluster-fuck.”

“No arguments here,” he agrees, and you smile a little. “Okay, he’s walking across the street now. I gotta go.”

After he hangs up, you bounce your knee and try to think, but all you can do is picture Dean the way that Gary looked when he left that club, and compare it to how he looks now. You swallow hard, knowing the comparison isn’t a far-cry.

You’re not even hungry anymore, or tired, or even angry at him anymore. You’re mostly angry at yourself, for all the time you wasted instead of trying to be a damn adult and admit to him and yourself all these things that have kept you awake and at your wits end.

You really hope Sam can think of something, you really hope there is a loop-hole or something. Chances are, there isn’t enough time to seal this dollar bill and all its black magic hoodoo. You don’t even know how it really works; if Dean has to pass the bill on or if it can kill him before that.

Fuck. This is the worst day ever.

Knowing that you’re the goal, what he’s after doesn’t really help, not the way it should. Then again…the holder of the bill _does_ have to pass it on to-

“Hey, Y/N. I heard you requested me?”

You look up, and find Sam and Dean walking towards you, Dean looking at you expectantly, like he needs your approval. It hurts to look at him, so you do something easier; you banter with Sam.

“Yeah, I ordered my burger with a side of moose but-“ you gesture at your plate and then shrug. “You just can’t get good service anymore,” you scoot over when Sam makes his way to your side of the booth.

“You think you’re funny, but you’re not.” He quips, frowns when his foot knocks into your heels on the floor, and then leans back to look under the table.

“Sorry.” You dip down, chin touching the table and grab them to toss them…oh, you don’t have anywhere to put them.

“Here, I got ‘em.” Dean offers, opening a hand over the table and you try not to think too hard about whether or not letting him do things for you is making the situation worse or not.

He’s all too happy to take your heels and lay them on his seat, and you flash him a quick smile despite the nausea tingling your jaw. Sam presses his thigh against yours, and you glance at him in your peripherals, pressing back.

Dean drags a fry through some ketchup, and Sam speaks up. “Don’t you ever get tired of eating the same thing?” he looks at the both of you.

“Hey,” Dean points at him with his fry. “if it aint broke, don’t fix it.” And beams at you so hard you almost feel sorry for not being able to give it right back.

Sam notices, notices the strength behind Dean’s smile, how his brother is drawn back to you after hardly two seconds of looking away, and he finally sees. He had wanted to believe his idiot brother had finally gotten his head on straight, but he’s too soft around the edges, too gooey in the eyes. And speaking of eyes, they look really tired.

Dean didn’t look like he pulled an all-nighter when they left that stripper’s house. And, of course he’s worried that the curse is in effect, but he’s also wondering why it’s moving so slow. He looks at you, how closed off you are, how quiet and un-like yourself you’re being, and he thinks he’s getting an idea, snippets of a clue.

“So,” You and Dean look at Sam, and you busy yourself with pushing soggy fries to the other side of your pate. “While I was eating all alone, by myself-“ he jabs at you, teasing and feigning hurt, and you roll your eyes. “I did look into Milla-“

“yeah, I bet.” Dean interrupts with a smirk.

“And nothing changed in her bank account, no fluctuations in her budget, no lifestyle changes,” he coasts on effortlessly. He shrugs. “So, maybe you were right. Maybe she doesn’t have it.” He says to Dean.

Dean nods, proud. “Like I told you.” And takes a sip of his coke, staring at you over the table, the way you’re playing with your food, hardly touching it, and he frowns. “Hey, Y/N, you okay?”

“What- yeah. I’m good. Just, you know. This case is gonna bug me, is all.” You lie, testing the crispiness of a fry. Mm, too soft. You frown, and then Dean frowns, confused.

Sam watches, observes, notices the way that those bags lessen under Dean’s eyes when you barely pay attention to him, the way you brush him off and recede into yourself. Sam’s starting to get a pretty good picture.

Clearly, the more you push away from Dean, the looser the Stallion’s grip on Dean becomes. Because he obviously isn’t doing what’s needed to get what he wants, the lengths he’s going to aren’t enough because his efforts are going wasted.

Sam stands, and you and Dean both look up at him, curious, and he sniggers. “I gotta go to the bathroom. Is that okay, mom and dad?”

Dean rolls his eyes, flips him off, and you watch Sam go, worrying your lip between your teeth. You really hope he comes up with something soon because you’re losing it over here.

“hey, you want something different? You’ve barely touched your food.”

“Oh, no. This is fine, just got my head in the clouds today.” You tell Dean, and then eyeball his fries, all of his straight, stiff fries, and then look at your own all bent and limp. You bet it was that waitress.

Your phone vibrates on the table and you jump, scowling at it. Dean does too, but mostly in confusion. Nobody’s called you since you all started working this case.

“Who’s that?” he asks before taking another huge bite of his cheeseburger.

You shrug, pick it up and see Sam’s name blinking on the screen. You furrow your brow, and answer. “yes?”

“Okay, listen,” he’s talking quietly, probably trying to keep Dean from recognizing his voice. “You’ve gotta be an asshole whenever he’s nice to you.”

“What?” you say, scrunching your face, and Dean leans forward, overtly curious. You turn a little, pushing him out of your peripherals.

“Every time you brush him off or act all distant after he’s nice, the curse recedes a little. Look, until we figure something out, you’re basically gonna have to be a huge dick to my brother.”

“Are you sure you have the right number?” you say, hoping Dean will back off, he’s almost got his chest in his plate trying to listen.

“yeah, I’ve seen it. Anyway, I think I’m onto something else too, but I kinda need to talk to you about it.”

“Okay, no problem.” And you hang up, toss your phone back onto the table like that wasn’t the most important conversation of your life. “Wrong number.” You lie to Dean, and he hums.

You try to eat, hoping it will help clear your head a little, but it just makes you feel more nauseous. Luckily, Sam arrives a couple seconds later, saving your ass from Dean’s undivided attention. He captures it even more-so when he snags a couple fries off your plate and tosses them into his mouth.

“Oh, what, I’m feeding you now?” Dean snips at Sam, and looks close to dragging your plate further away from Sam.

“Y/N doesn’t mind, right? We used to share food all the time.” Sam replies, and nudges your leg with his own.

You smile happier than you feel and shrug. “I’m fine with it. Help yourself, Sam.” And push your plate between the two of you, within easy reach for you both. Dean grumps on the other side of the table, pouting harder and harder with each passing second.

You take to eating your lunch again with renewed effort, Sam’s involvement helps tremendously. You’re not sure how sharing food is going to help, all it really seems to be doing is pissing Dean off. He’s tensed and stiff around the edges, pissy, and wired. And you find that a little reassuring; at least he’s not carrying bags under his eyes anymore.

So, you focus on your food, how greasy the cheeseburger is, and how the coke washes it down just right, and you frown about how little fries you have left. Speaking of, Sam is shoving a few more into his mouth. You shoot a flat look at him, and he goes _What?_ with a twitch of his eyebrows.

And then you look at your plate, noticing the lack of ketchup, and throw a quick bitch-face at him, which makes his smile while he chews.

“Can you pass-“ you start, and Dean all but shoves the bottle of ketchup towards you, scowling. You’re a little surprised at his brusqueness, and you get ready to thank him as way to try and smooth things over, but you remember Sam’s advice and hardly look at him.

The older Winchester notices, because he notices everything, and glares at his almost empty plate while you squirt a hefty amount of ketchup onto your own. He’s chewing so slow and hard he’s pretty sure he can feel atoms between his teeth.

“Would you stop?” you laugh, and Dean glances at the two of you. Sam is scooping up an obscene amount of ketchup onto one fry, disrupting your own process of doing so, and his stupid brother is smiling at you so warmly he feels his blood boil.

Dean pushes his plate away, and slides out of the booth, hoping you’ll be curious, but you don’t even glance in his general direction. You’re too busy fighting Sam over a crunchy French-fry, practically in his lap because he’s holding it out of reach.

Dean feels bile rise in the back of his throat, and stomps a little harder toward the bathrooms.

When the older Winchester disappears around a corner, you sigh and drop your head onto Sam’s shoulder. “Ugh, this is awful.” You moan, and he hums in agreement, offering you the fry like some kind of apology, or sympathy gift.

You snicker at him, and he pops it into his mouth when it become clear you’re not going to take it. “Alright,” he says, and wipes his hands on a napkin. You sit back and rub at your forehead. “What I wanted to talk to you about-“

“Jeez, there’s been a lot of talking going on.”

“-is the curse, and what it’s driven purpose for Dean is.”

You quirk an eyebrow, “Meaning what?”

“Well, for Gary, what he wanted most was that stripper, right?”

You nod, running your tongue along the front of your teeth, you’d bet anything you’ve got food stuck in there somewhere.

“For Dean, what he wants most is you, Y/N.”

You stare at Sam, wondering why in the Hell he thought now was a good time to be telling jokes- and you really have a problem with denial…

“The fuck are you talking about?” you’re so eloquent when you’re confused.

“You are what he’d do anything for. Think about it, how you’re suddenly the center of the universe, the puppy dog looks he gives you- and I know a thing or two about puppy dog looks -how nice he’s been, he’s like…soft and vulnerable and-“

“Ok,” you interrupt, throwing a look towards the bathrooms. “You made a good case, now please tell me you found a loop-hole?”

He presses his lips together, looks around a little. “Maybe. I think. I hope.”

You gape. “You hope? Jesus, Sam, this is only your brother’s life on the line.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

You rub a hand down your face, press your fingers into the corners of your eyes and heave a sigh. “Alright. Tell me what you got.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again with this random spurt of inspiration. Don't count on it happening again so soon. Uh- like I've said on another story, I don't proofread my stuff anymore so please forgive any grammatical errors if you'd be so kind. We've got the resolution to this dirty money and all the problems it causes in the next chapter, along with fluff. Right...take it easy, lovelies. Life is rough.


	9. You Got The Five-Finger Discount On Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guess Sam and his side-burns are good for something. Thank Fucking-Hell this is all over, at least where curses are concerned. From here on out, you'd carry a healthy fear of two-dollar bills. But who wouldn't? The same can't be said about feelings. Facing death, the death of someone you love, kind has a way of putting things into perspective. Imagine that. Wonder if Dean has straightened himself out.

He stares at you, longer than reason can account for and you worry that Dean will come back before he says anything at all. But eventually, after a battle with himself, he speaks. “You still love him, right?” he checks, peering at you critically and you choke mid-swallow.

His eyes widen when you hack and cough, sucking in breaths when you can, and you glare at him up through your lashes. “The- _*cough*_ -Hell, Sam?”

He holds his hands up, apologizing with floppy eyebrows. “I’m literally only asking because of this situation,” he purses his lips in sympathy, tries to tell you with soft eyes that he wouldn’t ever pry into your feelings on a whim.

You clear your throat, take a deep breath. It feels a bit strange, a little unbalanced and sneaky to talk about this topic with Sam. Almost cowardly that you should admit something like this to a person not involved, a person who this admittance doesn’t affect in the long-term but-

“Yes,” you hear yourself say, resolute, maybe somewhat melancholy, a hint of disappointment in yourself.

For Sam, it’s like you’ve given him a suitcase of $5 million dollars and told him that you had faked his death. _Go get yourself a new life, champ._ If only.

“Ok,” he’s smiling, “Ok,” nodding a little, “this is good,” he smiles at the rest of the diner, rhythmically taps his fingers on the edge of the table. Then he seems to remember that you’re scowling at him and that his brother is taking a comically long piss that can only last so much longer, and twists in the booth to angle his body toward you.

“Why were you going to leave, then?” he asks, throws an arm up on the backrest, lays his other on the table, aware of the plate a few inches away.

“What are you-“ you intend to stall, something stupid considering that you’re working against the clock and Dean’s (surely empty by now) bladder. But Sam stops your stupid plan before it has a chance to be really stupid.

“It’s pretty obvious that after this case is over, you plan on never seeing us again.” He’s not angry, but he is sad, and confused, but he somehow manages to keep blame and accusation out of his voice.

You rub at your eyelids, hoping the heaviness there will dissipate. “I just-“ you scratch at your chin while Sam waits, far too patiently, patiently enough that it’s almost like he doesn’t care. “He didn’t want me around-“

“How do you know that?” he expects you to bring up the break, that month of silence, the strings of days where Dean was pissy and intolerable and moped around like a kicked dog, and Sam ignored him vehemently because he couldn’t deal with his dumb brother- but you don’t. Instead, you kind of pause, flatten your lips, and rub at your arms.

And then your chin trembles, and your eyes glisten, and Sam mentally braces for this bombshell you’re about to drop. You sniffle quick, swallow and talk, talk like you’re not an emotional basket case and this is any normal Thursday.

“I told him…and he didn’t even blink, it was like I spoke a foreign language: he just stood there, and stared-“

“Wait. Told him what?” Sam interrupts your blubbery rush of words to voice his query, confused.

You blink quickly, lick your lips and burden your gaze, put some meaning behind it. _You know. Told him…_

Sam’s eyes widen. “That’s like-…his taboo word.” Sam stares over your head through the slit of the blinds to hazily stare at the parking lot. “And you…”

You’re nodding, swiping under your eyes, refusing to let your mascara run. You would not be like that grieving widow…but you so were.

“He does.” Sam says while you dab at your eyes, trying to catch salty tears on the ends of your lashes. He thinks about how your tears are wasted, and not for the reason you think you’re crying. “He does love you.” That’s why they’re wasted. Because his dumb brother was so damn in love with you it made him stupid, stupid enough to run.

“Then why was it so easy for him to walk away?”

“Because he’s fucking stupid!” Sam hisses with a sigh tossed somewhere near Dean’s assprint in the leather of his booth.

You grunt, the sound watery and stunted with tears and running snot and agree. Your eyes feel so hot it’s wonder they haven’t melted in their sockets. You dab at the outside corners of your eyes, and Sam grabs a new napkin to dip into the ice water that neither you or Dean had touched.

“Look,” he grabs your chin, waits for you to move your hands out of his way, and gingerly begins wiping under your eyes. “I know it doesn’t really mean much coming from me, but Dean was absolutely miserable during that break, and he’s only been worse since…” he breaks off, realizing it sounds like he’s pointing fingers instead of telling the truth. “He’s been…empty, I guess is the word.” He frowns, swipes near your temples because some of your grey eye shadow has smeared.

You listen to him talk, unfold things you never dared tip-toe towards, things you couldn’t bear to brush aside. Dean’s true feelings. It was harder to admit that he was probably fine without you, but it was simple.

Easier to think that he was a broken mess, but perplexing because- if he was destroyed without you, why would he choose to stay that way? You’re starting to lose track of who’s lying to who, whose feelings belong to who, and confused about the way that the past keeps meshing with the future and vice-versa.

“Loop-hole, Sam. Gimme the loop-hole to this.” You’re not sure if you’re talking about the curse or your relationship with Dean. You’d be happy with either.

“…right.” He tosses the napkin on the table, clears his throat. “So, you already know that Dean will literally do whatever is necessary to get you back,”

You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste iron.

“Let me ask you this, though. What would he have to do?”

“Explain himself.” You shoot out, tongue sharp, mind on standby, and Sam frowns so hard you feel like the student not grasping the simple concept of a lesson.

Sam closes his eyes, breathes deep, shakes his head a little, and looks at you. “He could die. Today,”

You suck in a breath, feel that lump in the back of throat creep up, and you gape at Sam. _Why are you going to make me cry again? I thought we were friends._

“He could’ve died two weeks ago on that ghoul case in North Dakota,”

_What? And neither one of them called?_

“Do you hear what I’m saying? He could’ve died, can die, and the last thing that he would think is that he loves you but it isn’t enough-“

You almost choke again, this time it’s because hearing the l word, Dean’s name, and you in the same sentence does things to your basic faculties.

“And you’d think, why didn’t I talk to him, or see him one last time. Why did I run just as far as he did, but in the opposite direction?”

“Shut up, you ass,” you whine, hating how he was hitting everything dead-on. If Dean died today, all you would do for the rest of your life was regret the way you reacted, you would admit to yourself that you had been too prideful, just like him, that you were scared, and confused and hurt but not enough to hate him. You’d regret all the time you spent blaming him instead of forgiving him, because he’d be gone, and you’d never get the chance to steal his food, or fight over the car radio with him, smuggle from his chocolate stash in the bunker, smile sleepily at him over the kitchen table all while trying to steal bacon from his plate-

“You fucker,” you sigh, wiping at a wet cheek. “You made me cry again. Bastard.”

He doesn’t retaliate, or sympathize, but he does talk. “What would he have to do?”

You blink quickly, see it all before you, this aha moment, and Dean turns around the corner, hands shoved into his pants pockets with high shoulders, and Sam watches you understand. And then he slides out of the booth just as Dean sits down again.

Dean hasn’t looked at you yet, he’s too busy pouting and cussing out the table in his head. He does ask Sam, “Where you going?”

Sam stalls, to share a look with a you, an agreement, and then says. “Back across the street, think I’m gonna get something to go from there,” Dean grunts, seeing that as the cue to leave and begins to get up out of the booth.

“I’ll get the bill,” Sam offers, and then peers out the window, adding, “I’ll probably be a minute though, service is kind of slow over there.”

Dean squints up at Sam, immediately suspicious, and looking for any reason to start a squabble that will loosen the tension in his shoulders. But Sam just shrugs as way of explanation, and heads toward the register.

Silence drops after Sam leaves, and neither you or Dean knows how or wants to break the silence. He’s still channeling ‘broody and pouty’ and has yet to look at you. You really hope Sam was right about this loop-hole, if it even was a loop-hole…

You slip your phone back into the waistband of your skirt, “Hey,”

He almost looks at you, almost, and you try to convince yourself that it won’t matter because everything’s going to be okay. Key-word: try.

“Could I have my heels?”

He pulls a breath through his nose, holds it, and offers your heels somewhere over the napkins and grains of salt. As you bend down to put them on, you take a long look at him, appreciating the things you had taken for granted. Things that you wouldn’t take for granted anymore if he made it out of this okay.

“You ready?” he asks, and you swallow back a lump in your throat.

_No._

“Yeah,” and you mimic his hop-slide out of the booth.

You take solace in the fact that if this doesn’t work out the way you want, he’ll at least know…

The steps you both take to the door feel and sound like an ultimatum, and you don’t count them, the last thing you need is another little detail of the worst day of your life to remember.

The sun is bright outside, and warm enough to make you wonder what month it really is. You squint in the sunshine, against the glare of light on the hoods of cars, and watch waves of heat waver the air over asphalt and metal, and you’ll suddenly aware of the stifling heat around your shoulders and back.

You slip Dean’s suit jacket off your shoulders, and hand it back to him with soft thanks while you walk. He hums, noncommittedly, and puts it back on, punching his arms into the sleeves. He’s toying with his keys, jingling them low in hand, near his thigh, and the sound is so familiar you almost don’t hear it.

But you do hear his door creak open, that first little squeak, and your voice finally crawls its way up through your throat.

“Hey, hold on.”

He pauses, staring at the searing roof of his pride and joy, and grunts in question.

You glance across the street, behind the impala, and you think you see Sam at the door of this other restaurant, watching.

“You, uh- you remember what you asked me in the diner?” You’ve got your arms folded over your chest, teeth in your bottom lip while you wait for him to say something or turn around and look at you. You don’t notice it, but your hands are shaking, and the tremors are slowly making their way up your arms to your shoulders.

“I asked you a lot of things,” he says with an accompanying sigh, sounding a little grouchy.

You snicker at his back, knowing he knows what question you’re referring to. Avoidance was something he could hold the first-place medal in.

“You asked me what I wanted from you.” Your voice is strong, stronger than you thought it would be, and you hope it can remain that way.

You watch his head bob, nodding. “Yeah. You figure it out?”

“…I did.” You say, watching that jacket stretch and spread over his shoulders with a deep breath. He seems to need that breath because when he turns to face you, it’s still in his lungs, on its way to becoming stale.

“I figured it out a long time ago, to be honest.” You smile wryly, scrunching a cheek with it. You had, you’d known what you wanted from him months ago in the early morning of some inconsequential day of the week with your back smooshed to his chest because he had arm thrown over your waist so tightly. You’d known when you’d felt his warm breath ghost across the back of your neck, the way he had shifted in his sleep, snuggled you closer…you’d known even back then.

“So, what is it?” he asks, staring imploringly. If he were sitting, he’d be on the edge of his seat.

There’s a second, a momentary pause where you think, _Fuck-balls on a stick, what if this doesn’t work, and I’m about to watch him die?_

And Dean’s never been patient. “What do you want from me, Y/N?”

But then you steel yourself, remind yourself that you’re a damn hunter, and situations like this are a common occurrence in your everyday life. Well, not this, exactly. This situation is a bit too specific to be common.

“Nothing, Dean.” He blinks at you, quick and narrowed, and you know it isn’t him, not completely. “You don’t have to do anything for me.” The truth tastes strange on your tongue after so many weeks of it festering in your chest, poisonous and sharp.

“What are you- what?” he shakes his head once with an incredulous, open-mouthed look. Even if he wasn’t being possessed by a ‘murder horse’, you doubt he’d look any less confused. “What do you mean, ‘I don’t have to do anything’?”

“I mean,” Oh, sweet Jesus, are you about to cry again? “I forgave you for everything about two weeks ago, but I was too proud, and pissed to throw in the towel!” you comb a hand through your hair, forcing a steady breath into your nostrils.

He smiles a twitch, amused and unsurprised, fondly appreciating your stubbornness. It’s one of the many reasons he first fell in love with you.

“God, you’re so dumb!” you poke him in the chest, rolling your eyes in the process. “You’ve never had to do anything, this whole time!”

He’s looking a little more like himself, because he’s wide-eyed, stiff: uncomfortable because you’ve started to cry. And you hardly ever cried in front of him, sometimes it was because it was your time of the month and you were just emotional, but other times- the only other times you’d cry -was because a hunt had been more dangerous than anticipated. And he had been an idiot and done something that took him to the brink of death…that was when you’d cry. When you were afraid that you almost lost him.

He blinks down at you, nostrils flaring, his breath coming in clearer, weight leaving his shoulders.

“You never have to do anything for me to love you,” you wipe the back of a hand over a damp cheek, and curse yourself for crying. That was the last thing you wanted to today…well, second to last thing. “And you can’t do anything to make me not love you,” Jeez, hadn’t you cried enough? If Dean lived after this, he’d give you so much crap for this chick-flick moment. Maybe you could just tell him you were getting over a period?

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” you murmur at him, staring down at your glossy black heels, and his cap-toe oxfords you had bullied him into buying a few months ago. His only other pair of dress shoes were screaming to be put out of their misery.

“Nope.”

Your eyebrows go up, and your mouth opens, works around with vowels, and when you finally get no answers from the asphalt, you snap your head up too.

“Excuse me?” you question, dually puzzled and irritated, and he’s not even fazed, really. He’s smiling like an idiot, those perfect teeth on display, laughing lines casing the corners of his mouth, and those sweet eye crinkles accenting the shape of his eyes-

He laughs, rich and deep, sweeps his gaze over your head and the rest of the parking lot while you frown at him and he shakes his head in disbelief. When he looks down at you again, he’s still smiling, and the expression in his eyes is so soft you worry that this loop-hole didn’t do anything, and the thought has the waters pressing at the gates again.

But that’s far from your mind when his lips are suddenly pressing on yours and he has his arms around you tight, like he’s worried that you’ll disappear.

You gasp quietly, and he swallows it with zeal, curling closer, slanting his chin on yours, pushing quick, warm little pecks onto your stunted lips. Your hands are far ahead of your mouth, twisting, gripping the lapels of his jacket, slipping in the smooth fabric.

It’s only when you tip up, stand on your tip-toes to get closer that he kisses you like you remember; a hand in your hair, an arm around your waist, plump lips fierce and so hungry all you can do is swoon and follow him. He doesn’t taste of anything he ate, instead, you can catch a faint tinge of mint, and something that you’ve always just labeled as ‘him’ and reach farther, reveling the way the kiss rolls and tilts, and becomes heavy, becomes slow.

He breaks away, a few inches, and waits for your eyelashes to flutters themselves apart, so he can look into your eyes. So you can see how clear his own are, how very present he is for the first time in almost an hour and a half.

“M’pretty sure I’ve told you before,” he murmurs, his mossy greens alight with mirth and mischief and relief so great, you feel your heart settle, at ease behind bones and thrumming muscle. He’s never looked more like himself than he does now.

“Don’t you ever cry for me, babe.” He grins, wide and toothy as he says it, and you roll your barely-damp eyes at him, inching a smile.

You drop your head onto his chest, minutely shake your head. “I hope you know you’re gonna catch Hell from me later for putting me through this.”

His arms wrap around you, a hand running up and down your back. “Oh, I’m counting on it. First, let’s lock up this money and all its crazy hoo-doo, huh?”

“That is the first sensible thing you’ve said in an hour, and I love it.” You half-groan into his tie and he laughs, the vibrations rumbling you.

“Did it work?” you hear Sam say, breathless, and a few feet away, having jogged across the street. He had almost gotten hit by a car, not that you or Dean noticed.

“I’m still here, aint I?” Dean quips back, all manner of ‘duh’ and sassy and surface deep, and Sam throws a quick bitch-face at him, and a ‘Yeah, he’s fine’ before grumping into the car.

“Barely. Me and Sam really did fly blind on this, we had no idea if this loop-hole was a loop-hole-“

“Well, it was. That’s all that matters.” He interrupts you, pressing his lips into your hair, “Well, not everything,” he mumbles, and you peel back to look at him.

“What do you mean?”

He smiles, a little pained, “We’ve still got a few things to talk about.” He drops a lingering kiss to your forehead, and pulls away to duck into the impala. You hope you don’t have to wait until the bunker to talk about them, you don’t think you have that kind of patience, not after the day you’ve had.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys. It's been a couple weeks or something, right? I didn't feel like writing, but I did it anyway, if it isn't up to par, my apologies. Life has been rough *ugh, goddamn irony* I am not back from Hiatus, not exactly. Miraculously, the words showed up my laptop so I posted them. I'll see you around...sometime. Take it easy, lovelies. Life is a bitch.


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